


Spoiled Rotten

by monochromatic



Series: Story Time with Ari and Ven [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dave has a particular kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just an fyi, Dirk is eighteen in this depiction.

It's always one of those ideas that seems great, at least until you hit the 'send' button. The same text, every time: ' _wanna play a game when you get home_ '. Never punctuated, never afforded a proper question mark. You don't want to seem speculative. Ironically, you want to seem authoritative, as if you get to decide yes or no, as if you call the shots.

He doesn't reply, but neither does he once give you cause to justify the jitters that send you pacing your apartment. It's _good_ that he hasn't replied; a reply only ever indicates rejection. He only replies to tell you “No, not today” or “Sorry, Bro, I'm not in the mood” or “Gotta' study.” When he doesn't reply, it's the closest to an affirmative you can hope to expect.

He makes you wait, today. You can picture him, strolling casually down the side streets, taking his sweet time, stopping to admire architecture as if he even gives a damn. He's probably sipping an iced coffee – more weak, milky nectar than actual brew. 

By the time he arrives, you've outlasted your restlessness and have long since transitioned into nervous stillness. You've been sitting on the couch for almost an hour, staring at nothing, eyes trained on the big windows despite the blinds having been secured. Not even the sunlight is allowed inside for this. Twenty-Five Years Without Parole isn't exactly your idea of a worthwhile publicity stunt.

Dirk doesn't speak to you. He walks past you as if you don't exist, like perhaps you're another expensive, gratuitous decoration, or just a lengthy shadow stretched along the sofa. He's getting into character, but his silent dismissal hurts disproportionately.

The kid takes a terribly long time to get ready – his tendency toward precision compounded against his resistance to immersion, you know. You slip-slide into character easily, messily, not caring to examine where the line between This Dave or That Dave may or may not lie. Dirk, of course, has drawn a dark, bold line; where you prefer ambiguity, he craves distinction. You can hear him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He mutters something to himself and it bounces off the tiles, unintelligible. 

After what feels like an age, Dirk steps out of the shadow of the hall. His shoulders are broadened by his carefully tailored suit jacket.

“Dave,” he says sternly, “we've been over this.”

Oh, shit.

“You don't bother me while I'm out.” He takes a seat, fits easily in the snug embrace of the fine leather, posture imposing, relaxed. You, on the other hand, are stiff as a board. “Go get me a Scotch. Neat.”

“But —” 

“I’ve had a long day.”

Any objection you have is purely out of concern for the preservation of your expensive booze and also for the preservation of Dirk’s unsullied tastebuds. He doesn’t even drink, and perhaps this is character going too far. It might even be amusing, but if he spits it out, so help you, God…

“Okay, Daddy.” 

There’s a spark that erupts in your gut, that blazes in agitated waves as it grows louder and hotter. You turn your back on him and walk slowly to the bar that’s stationed in a nook of the lounge. If it were a regular Friday night and dinner was on the buffet and if Dirk was nestled cozily into the couch in his sweats, you’d ask him which brand he’d prefer to try. As it is, good little boys are not supposed to know their Scotch brands. So without consulting him, you pull the Rendezvous off the shelf and pour just a little bit. You don’t even know if he understands what he’s asking for, if he understands how exquisitely bold this drink is going to be without the gentle dilution of ice.

You bring it to him and stand awkwardly to the side, waiting. 

Dirk swills the whisky around in its tumbler, and hesitates. You’re interested to hear what he has to say, crossing your fingers for something truly amateur. 

“Stop fidgeting.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take notice of your fingers, concerned with the hem of your shirt. Disappointment and delight collide with one another at Dirk’s reprimand. You watch as he takes another tentative sip, gulps it, too fast, eyes screwed shut, his mouth a hard line. You bet he wasn’t expecting it to be spicy. Predictably though, he regains his composure and tries again. He seems to savor it this time, but you can see his eyes watering. 

It’s too bad; the drink suits him, otherwise.

He’s tracing the rim of his glass with a wet finger, making it sing. “Now, what to do about you, Dave.” His eyes fall on you as though you are game, hunted for sport; perhaps he is deciding exactly how to hang you. “This is hardly your first offense.” He sips again, and this time, barely winces. “You’re insolent. You’re loud. _Demanding_.” 

Heat flushes through your skin and you adore and hate how reactionary this game turns you. 

“I think,” he taps his fingers against his glass, “you need to be taught a lesson.”

Your breath picks up along with your pulse, which is thundering in your ears. Dirk does not command you with volume or emphasis; rather, it is the even keel of his voice, his soothing timbre that coaxes you into submission. A single gesture of his finger is all it takes to bring your forward. 

He straightens, his face level with your hips. Grabbing your belt, he undoes the buckle; you put up a weak effort to get away, but he jerks you forward. “Stay still.”

You gaze up at the ceiling in this dark room, blushing furiously as Dirk pulls your jeans down around your thighs. You can feel him looking, can feel his attention on your cock. It goes without comment, however, which exacerbates the tension in your skin. 

“Bend over my lap.”

It’s been a while since you’ve earned a spanking. It might be easier and less time-consuming simply to obey your kid brother; drape yourself quite happily over his knees and beg as he abuses your ass to a delicate shade of pink. But on the other hand, that’s not terribly good for him. He needs to learn how to assert himself, after all. 

“I wasn’t _that_ bad,” you protest. “It was only a text.”

Dirk raises an eyebrow. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. The jacket hugs his shoulders, and the slim, black tie accents his trimness. He’s grown from stringy and greasy into lean and wiry. His complexion is clearer these days, and his voice has (mostly) stopped cracking. 

“‘Bad’ isn’t the point, Dave. You’re missing the big picture.” He isn’t looking you in the face though and that’s when you remember your pants are down. “That text was merely the straw that broke this camel’s back. Now, _come_.”

You almost do.

“But —!”

Dirk stands up, and physically hauls you into his lap. He positions one hand in the middle of your back in such a way that it’s as if all of his weight is being exerted onto you; you might be able to move if you tried, but you don’t. Dirk’s abruptness shows his age, his inexperience, but you let it slide because you’re intrigued.

“I hope you understand that this is for your own good,” he says, and then there’s a stinging pain tickling through your skin. Dirk’s hand remains stationary on the curve of your ass for a moment, before whipping back and smacking you again, this time on the opposite cheek. You cry out, the way you never would in a bar fight or even for innocuous injury. But for Dirk, you let loose, and he does not hold back. “I don’t know what you expected,” he says serenely, like this is just another wave in an ocean of ongoing adult ennui. “You’re defiant, and mouthy,” _smack_ , “not to mention spoiled completely rotten.” Then he pauses, almost thoughtful. “But I suppose that’s my own doing.” A resigned sigh punctuated by the last resounding smack over bare skin. 

You watch, sprawled out on the floor like a rag doll instead of a man twice Dirk’s age, while he undoes his shiny belt buckle. For a moment, you’re almost hypnotized by the sound of zipper teeth disengaging.

“You’re old enough to know better, by now,” he winks. “Come here.” His teeth wheedle away at his bottom lip, betraying his nerves. 

It’s an easy detail to overlook, though, now that he has his dick out. Dirk is well-hung, for a teenager and when you aren’t being silently, grudgingly envious, you can be quite appreciative. Fixation one way or the other, always fixation, just from one end of a disgusting continuum to another.

“I work hard,” he says huskily, “I give you everything you could ever want.” Oh, so it’s the pot and the kettle, then. “How about I get a little something that _I_ want, for a change?”

What an onerous, entitled little jackass you’ve raised. You blink up at him from the floor, and try not to think about how hard you are right now.

Dirk is stroking himself in one hand, extending the other to you. “Come on, baby.” His voice is like silk that’s been dragged through dirt. “Daddy wants his dick sucked.”

You actually whimper aloud. Shuffling forward on your knees, you plant your hands on his thighs; he guides you with a hand on either side of your face, presses his cock to your lips. He’s rigid and warm; you kiss him gently, with dry lips. But after only a moment, he loses his patience.

“Forget the foreplay, Dave; give me what I want.”

You still don’t comply, not completely. Instead, you lick him and kiss him; you nuzzle his thighs through the fabric. You stretch and try to kiss his belly but he catches you by the hair and jerks you back down. 

“You’re being obstinate. Stop it.” 

You bite your lip and smile and shake your head ‘no.’ His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Do you want another spanking, is that it?”

Your smile explodes into a grin. “Yes, Daddy.”

He holds you firmly, trying to assess you but his concentration is waning, fast. He tugs on you for good measure. “No, I don’t think I will.” He scooches to the edge of the seat and spreads his legs. “Open up for me, Dave.”

You want to, badly, and even you’ve had enough of your own mulishness. You part your lips and let Dirk ease you forward, his skin hot on your tongue. He smells clean, like soap, but also there’s the faint tang of salt, and the inexplicable smell of skin. The heel of his hand digs against your head and the forceful punch of it flips a switch inside and you let go of a moan you’ve been holding since you saw him in that fucking suit. 

Dirk keeps his own reactions short and controlled, much to your displeasure. You slip off and kiss him, teasing until he puts you back in your place. He moans, leaning into the couch and draining the last drops of scotch while you bob in his lap.

“Daddy?” you try, looking up at him with wide eyes, lazily pumping his cock in your fist. “What about me?” You bet he’ll make you front the cleaner bill for the precum you’re smearing all over his pant leg.

He runs his fingers through your hair affectionately. “If you wanna’ get off, you’re gonna have to wait. Learn a little patience,” he says harshly, and then pushes your face back into his lap. He holds you there, this time, holds you still while he pushes into your mouth. 

Listlessly, you rest between his knees while he moves you as he pleases, makes you take him as far as you can. You try to touch yourself, even just a little bit but he jams your wrist between the couch and his foot and it _hurts_. You groan around him while your wrist goes limp and decide, rather than to try your luck again, to lay it gently on the couch beside him.

He strokes it with only the tips of his fingers, featherlight and harmless.

“Dave, shit…” he thrusts forward so hard that the couch bumps into the end table and his empty scotch glass hits the floor with a hard, hollow _thunk_. He wrenches your head back — the way you like — and holds you still with one hand, grazing your cheek tenderly with the other. “So fucking good, Dave…” Dirk comes so quietly, with his head thrown back and his chest heaving and the only sound is his staggered, gasping breaths. His face is alight with ecstatic flush and his eyes are fixed on you, his mouth hanging open as he aims over your face, fascinated by the mess he’s making. 

You wonder if you look as good as you feel. You wish you could have him take a picture or something — god, what wouldn’t you give to record this sometime— but that would be far, far too risky. As it is, you feel okay about settling for just the feeling of Dirk’s come on your cheeks, your lips, your chin. You lick your lips and listen with satisfaction to his reaction. 

He won’t swallow for you, says you smoke too much, drink too much booze. 

You nudge his leg and whine, not wanting to allow him to fall into post-orgasm limbo without you. 

He slides down the couch, sighing contentedly. “Guess we should get you cleaned up, huh, baby.” 

The desire to respond with vitrilol is strong, but not strong enough to breach the surface. Instead, you nod and hope this will be more than just a warm, wet towel to the face.

After a second, Dirk regains his strength and sits up. He stands and takes you by the hand and pulls you onto your feet, leads you down the hall. In the bathroom, he strips and then strips you, and puts you both in the shower. He wipes your face, soaks your hair and runs his fingers through it, kisses your jaw and your neck, sucks a mark onto your chest. 

He’s gotten so tall.

“I love you,” he murmurs in your ear as he soaps up your stomach, your hips, your thighs.

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

“Shh.” He hushes you for his own comfort more than for yours. “Shh, I know.” He tugs you against his chest and kisses you, drags his teeth softly against your skin, sucks the water off. He takes your cock in his hand and squeezes and pulls and he does this thing with his fingers that is only pleasurable because it is novel. He kisses you and washes you and touches you and he takes care of you. For all that he takes what he wants, he takes care of you.

“You know, what got me off was looking at your face.” 

You feel weak in the knees and you hope desperately that he will catch you if you waver.

“The way you look at me when I fuck you, Dave,” he growls and you push into his hand. “Your lips all red from sucking my dick, face all red from how much you enjoy it…” He surprises you and spanks you again — playfully though, instead of punatively. “Your ass red from where I’ve marked you.”

He probably can’t get hard again yet, but it’s nice to think he might fuck you in the shower.

“You looked real good with my come on your face.”

He doesn’t talk like this when it’s just the two of you and no roleplay in the room. He isn’t shy, but easily embarrassed, quick to dismiss things for lacking purpose or sensibility. But when Dirk is your Daddy, he likes to embellish and elaborate on all the details and you are so glad for it. 

“Did you like it when I did that?”

Unable to manage even an incoherent string of syllables, you nod your head frantically, allowing at least a garbled noise of emphatic affirmation. You _loved_ it, especially as you didn’t expect it. And the way he pulled your hair and forced you into place…

At the exact moment you relive the searing hot memory of Dirk’s fingers yanking you back and the hot spatter of him on your face, his fingers twist and brush over you — oversensitive, neglected, ravenous you — and your vision bursts into cloudy stars, your muscles convulsing, rampant with electrical impulses speeding through you in an unbearable tidal wave. Dirk does have to hold you, so that you don’t fall face first into the tile of your shower, and he hums and coos and strokes you through it.

When it’s over, you feel hot and limp and as if your tissues are all full of helium. 

Dirk is silent, now. You are aware of him, turning off the shower, and dragging himself out, and dragging you after him. You whimper as your skin rises under cold air after the steamy heat of the shower, and you are aware of Dirk handling you with care as he rolls you into your bed, as he swathes you in your  sheets of impossible thread counts. 

You are aware of him crawling in next to you, how he does not join you beneath the covers. And you know that as you drift into easy, sleepy appeasement, the messy composite of your many roles, Dirk will remain beside you, unable to sleep until he has deconstructed himself. You are happy to exist as a sum while your brother is comfortable only when splintered into parts. 

Still, it is Dirk who kisses you in your sleep, and it will be Dirk, more or less, who will be snoring beside you when you wake.


	2. Chapter 2

 And wake you do, under Dirk’s hands. You open your eyes, groggy with sleep and find Dirk laying on his side; you can feel one of his legs locked around yours, feel the gentle swell and retract of his chest as he breathes beside you. One of his hands is soothing along your back in long, tender strokes.

“Hey, baby.”

Goosebumps rise along your neck and arms, and your heart starts to race.

Dirk inches closer, rests his head in the grove between shoulder and neck, kisses your ear. “You were real good earlier, about taking your punishment.”

Your muscles coil and your gut tightens with sweet anticipation.

“Would you like to be spoiled, now?”

“ _Daddy_ , _yes_ ,” you breathe. You whine when his teeth bother the shell of your ear. “Yes _please_.”

Dirk laughs softly and it gets under your skin, into your veins, pushed low. His fingertips flutter from your shoulders down your chest, teasing like butterfly wings across your back, threatening to tickle your sides. He doesn’t make good on it, though. Instead, he climbs up and straddles your legs, continues to sweep his hands up and down your back. His fingers dig here and there; he kneads you with his knuckles, finding and undoing pits of stress that have accumulated.

“How does that feel, baby?”

Groaning, you answer, “ _Good_.”

“Good, huh?”

Oh, right. “Thank you.” Your breath tumbles out of you when his lips make contact just above your tailbone. You can feel his cock, hard and heavy on your legs.

“You’re such a good boy,” he tells you, murmurs into your skin so that it seems into your pores. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

You don’t linger on that for very long; there is a strong tide of thought in your head and it’s too easy to get pulled out to sea. You’d much rather float along and enjoy the gentle scrape of his nails, anticipation building inside you; his lips brush your ear, his hushed nothings whisper past your cheek, and your skin begins to crawl. Dirk’s attention is singular and focused: you are the light at the end of his tunnel.

“Your skin is so soft,” he breathes, passing his hands over you, digging his knuckles into the small of your back until you whimper. He presses his lips firmly against you, making a hard trail down your back and your sides, kisses your legs and squeezes your thighs until he can wring a response from you. Then he kisses the swell of your ass, smiling into your skin. His fingers are trembling a tiny bit, and his smile isn’t without nerves; he’s still just a kid, still doesn’t know really what he’s doing. His hands slip and he sweats and his voice loses steel, from time to time.

He bites you.

“Hey!”

“No?” he asks softly.

You pause. “You just surprised me.” Another breath or two. “Daddy, you know I don’t like surprises.”

“I’m sorry. I could tell you what I’d like to do, so you’ll know.”

“That...yeah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, please.”

Dirk scooches up your body until he’s straddling your ass; it’s delightful and it’s painful all at once. He unfurls along your back until his arms are wrapped around you; he kisses you wetly behind your ear, nibbles softly along your neck until you almost buck him off.

“You have a really nice ass, Dave.”

You grin, wiggling your butt under your brother’s  weight. “I know.”

He twists around and spanks you. “Don’t be arrogant.” Then his palm soothes over the sore spot, and he turns back over, rolling off of you so that you’re facing one another. He kisses your mouth but pulls back before you can answer. “Do you want more kisses?” he asks.

Frantically, you nod.

“Good, because I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you all over.” He rakes one of his hands down your side, hovers around your hip and squeezes. Then he lets his fingers fall down your bare thigh, combing through the hair on your legs. “I want to kiss your chest and your arms,” his eyes follow the path he’s describing, hungry. “I want to kiss your tummy.” He pinches you and you actually squeal. “I want to kiss your hips, and I want to kiss you here,” he curves a few of his fingers along the cleft of your ass, “if you’d like that.”

You make a noise and bury your head under your pillow.

“You’re so cute when you get embarrassed.”

You had wondered when he was washing you up before bed if he’d had something like this in mind, but then maybe Dirk had just been taking good care of you. But as a teenager, you can always trust him to have horny, ulterior motives.

“Would Baby like a rimjob?” he asks you, his voice dropping.

You peek out from beneath the pillow and glance over your shoulder. Dirk is rubbing your thighs, gazing at you lovingly. “Yes, please,” you murmur.

Dirk sinks down between your legs and smiles. He traces his fingernails over your skin and doodles idly. “Okay, flip over.”

Your face is burning, but you do as you’re told, crawling away from the sanctuary of your pillow. You scooch onto your back and prop yourself up against the pillows, watching nervously.

“Spread your legs, please.” Dirk is so gentle with you as compared to before. He still commands you, still demands of you, but now it’s in your best interest instead of his. In this scenario, Dirk is free to give you what you really want, and you are free to accept it.

Dirk’s tongue is flat and wide and wet across you, and the warmth of him eases into you, seeping through your nerves like warm water. At the same time, a knot begins forming in your belly, congealing and twisting; for now, it’s a faint tension, far-off and nonthreatening.

Your little brother presses his face against you, and you can feel faint stubble rubbing against your skin. It’s irritating but the bliss of Dirk’s tongue teasing and nudging at your skin drowns out the sensation. “Dirk!”

He pulls back and smacks the back of your thigh. “Excuse you.”

Your breath is short and your chest heaves with effort; that knot in your stomach is beginning to contort itself into more and more complex shapes. “Daddy,” you correct yourself. “Please finish me, Daddy.”

“Finish?” he frowns. “We’ve barely begun, baby boy.” He lets his hands fall down your thighs, scraping the inside of them with his nails. “Now, do Daddy a favor, okay?”

“What?” You shake as he kisses along your leg, following the trails left behind by his fingers.

“Get your hand all wet.” Lazily, he watches you, sucking on your skin, kissing it, then starting again. He watches you lick your palm. Slather it. You keep going until he makes a satisfied noise. “Now take your cock in your hand.”

Your grip is almost too hard and you have to take it down a notch.

“Easy.” Dirk knows you too well. “Now, just play with yourself a little bit, touch yourself like I’m not even here.” He waits and watches you to see if you’ll follow instruction, and after you’ve proven that you can, he descends between your legs.

You cry out so loudly that you shove your other hand against your mouth, biting until it hurts.

“No, Dave.” When Dirk takes his tongue away from you, it’s hell. “Let me hear you. I wanna’ hear you so bad.”

Slowly, you move your hand away from your face. But when he goes back down on you, it twitches and you almost bring it up again.

“Do I need to restrain you?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“No!” You don’t want that, not for this. “No,” you say again, softer.

“Then do as you’re told. I want to spoil you, but you have to deserve it.”

“I do!” you shout without thinking.

Pausing, Dirk appraises you. “Oh, do you.” He closes his hand around yours, tightens your hold on your dick, and spits on you to keep you slick. “Do you, now.” Then, he takes his hand away, while you continue to tug, hyper-aware of being watched. “Tell me you deserve it, Dave.”

You keep jacking it because if you stop, Dirk...Daddy won’t be pleased. You slide more loosely over yourself, hips starting to gain momentum, building a rhythm with your fist. “I…” you falter. It takes a deep, steadying breath before, “I deserve this,” you rasp. “I deserve this.” Your head lolls back onto the pillows but you keep touching yourself, and you can almost _feel_ Dirk’s scrutiny.

“What do you deserve, Baby?” he asks you tentatively.

“I deserve to be spoiled.”

He hums contentedly. “Of course you do.” Under other circumstances, Dirk’s weird psychological games would be unwelcome, but he means well and he only wants you to allow yourself the things you want.

He kisses your hand, then your thighs, and then he sinks down low. Once more, his tongue is heaven on your skin, and the noises he makes turn you light headed. When his tongue begins to press inside you, your legs begin to shake. He braces his hands against you, moaning into your skin.

After a while, though he won’t say it, his jaw gets tired and he pulls back from you, resting his warm cheek on your thigh. Your arm is also getting tired, and it probably shows. “Can you keep going for me?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You won’t actually commit yourself to this, but it’s worth a shot.

“You deserve this, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. Grab the lube for me.”

The knot in your stomach does a flip. You could feel the bed dipping earlier, where Dirk was rubbing himself against it with his tongue in your ass. You love that he gets off on rimming you.

Dirk watches you while he edges a finger around you. “Are you ready, Baby? Just tell me if you need more tongue, okay?”

He’s tired and you’re expectant and by now, you really, really would like to feel a finger inside you. Or anything, really, for that matter. You squirm while he tests and teases you, slowly inching his finger in. He kisses and nips at your leg and whispers sweet encouragements, tells you to keep touching yourself. But your grip keeps slacking and your eyes get focused on Dirk: his gorgeous, angular cheekbones, his square, solid jaw, the almost greedy fervor in his face.

“I love you, Baby,” he tells you. “I love you so, so much.” He slips a bigger finger into you and now the knot has expanded into your lower back, forcing your legs to tighten up. Your entire body vibrates with restlessness and a feedback loop that leaves you feverish.

“Daddy!”

“Yes?”

“ _Daddy_!” You can only repeat yourself, a broken record. “Daddy _please_!”

Dirk knows your body better than you do, or perhaps he just has better access to it. It always feels like nothing at first, but the way he massages that one spot until the nerves wake up is infuriating. You only wish you had the patience to do that yourself. He presses and rubs at you until your back comes off the bed and you nearly kick him in your frenzy.

“Gentle, please,” he reprimands. “Is your arm tired?”

Practically whimpering by now, you nod your head frantically.

“You can stop, then.” As grateful as you are for the relief, you miss your own touch, but you aren’t given much time to lament: carefully, Dirk scooches forward, and he kisses you, wraps his lips around you. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest. He’s relentless, fingers working you urgently, licking and sucking on your cock like candy. You can tell Dirk is losing his patience, because he’s getting sloppy, but his enthusiasm for you is hot. He looks at you as if this is his favorite place in the world to be. He moans softly around you, like you’re his favorite flavor.

The knot can’t expand anymore, but you feel trapped on a plateau, and the only way you can get off is to jump. But you’re bad at taking plunges, so you ask, “Daddy, can I please have more?”

Dirk pulls off of you and you miss his warmth. “More how, Baby?”

“Just more, please. I want more.” You hesitate. “I deserve more.”

Dirk grins. “Yeah, you do.” He presses his fingers back in you, but instead of moving them in and out, he just pushes and massages in one place, and when he sucks your cock back into his mouth, he makes a show of it. His pace is frantic now, and the more noise you make about it, the faster he goes, the harder he pushes. He gags on you a tiny bit and has to ease up, and you feel awful for getting turned on by that. But he recovers quickly enough and he guides you back into his mouth with his other hand, pumping you desperately. “Come on, Dave.”

You look up at him, his eyes searing you with urgency.

“Come on, Baby.”

Dirk wants  you. He wants you to come. And badly. Thinking about this, combined with the warmth and wetness of Dirk’s mouth, and the pressure inside of you from his fingers, it edges you closer and closer and closer, and then all it takes is a last, forceful, surprise push.

It turns out Dirk does know your body better than you do. He feels it a second before it happens and moves over, lying leisurely on your hip while he jerks you through your orgasm, his contented noises drowned out by your cries. Your hips still stutter, even once it’s over. Eventually though, even you run out of steam and slump motionless against your bed. You’re almost asleep when you feel Dirk get up, listen to him pad across the room and into the bathroom. The sound of the faucet running registers in your ears, but it doesn’t occur to you that it could have anything to do with you.

A minute passes. Then a few. And then Dirk comes back and you shiver even though the washcloth is warm. He cleans you up, gently, murmuring soothing noises at you, though you’re too tired to make out the words.

“But Daddy,” you object weakly, exhausted. “Daddy, you didn’t get off.”

Dirk kisses your belly, the wet, clean insides of your thighs. “I don’t need to, Baby. I had a good time spoiling you.” When he’s satisfied with you, he clambers up beside you and curls into your warmth. The two of you tangle yourselves like bramble, and fall back asleep. You’ll wake up in the evening, and Dirk will complain at you for food, and you’ll probably order out and watch shitty movies together. And you’ll harp on him to do his homework and to go to bed at a decent time. And all of this – Dirk spoiling you, Dirk using you, Dirk owning you – will be forgotten about, tucked neatly out of sight until the next time you want to play.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and six months later, the end.

**Author's Note:**

> So sometimes, friend [Ven](madragingven.tumblr.com) and I will sit down and discuss all the wonderful possibilities for stories, and most times, I become so enamored with these possibilities that I decide to put them to paper. But they would not be possible without Ven's input, and I want a neat place to store these collaborative efforts. Thus, this is the first in an indefinite series of works entitled "Story Time."


End file.
